WAITING AT AIRPORTS

Robert Duncan finds he has time on his hands…

waiting at airports

                  Boarding at last!

Too hot. Wishing I’d dressed differently. Carrying too many bits and pieces. Still irritated that I had driven into the long term car park instead of the short term, and had been faced with a long walk or a bus ride until a kindly foreign man told me where to go ( in the politest possible way.) and I wasn’t even in the terminal yet ( the relevance of the word terminal was beginning to dawn on me) and because I’d left home impossibly early, managing to awaken my gorgeous wife to a sleepy good morning (considers not going on my little trip) I was now a whole hour early. It was the M25’s fault. Behaving perfectly like that, and proving it could be a fast road, just like other motorways.

After tapping every ounce of technology I possess, which is virtually none, I actually checked in on a machine! So there! I’m the man! Ok, I put my passport in the wrong way up, then in the wrong slot, by which time the machine was showing signs of irritation – the sort of reaction I often get from the lady in my satnav.

Onward to security, where I manage to persuade them that my tiny bottle of moisturiser isn’t an offensive weapon, remove my belt and tell them my trousers could well fall down, and I’m in.

Things are looking up. A large cappuccino and a Danish help pass a bit of time, and realising I am still an hour too early I decide to write this thing. And that brings you right up to date. To the minute. So how shall I finish this piece? Chat about how I’m going to walk around Dixon’s and play with some pointless gadgets? Walk round Boots to find more dangerous liquids to use in my quest for world domination? Smith’s for a pointless magazine I’ll never read, or a crossword book I won’t be able to do?

No, I’ll probably just sit here and have another cappuccino, to stop them from demanding my table back.

Us international types eh?